


Together Forever

by Tish



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mission Failure, Time Loop, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-15 04:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16055447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/pseuds/Tish
Summary: Work together. Die together.





	Together Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nemirovitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemirovitch/gifts).



_So, this is death_ , thought Illya as his vision started to blur. His throat burned like fire as he took a shuddering breath, but no air filled his lungs. A high pitched tone rang in his ears, cutting out all other sound. His hand trembled as he pressed against Napoleon's throat, warm blood trickling through his fingers. _At least I can see your face, Napoleon._

Tears filled Napoleon's eyes as he lay slumped on top of Illya. _I can't save you. I can't even save myself, Illya. I'm sorry_. He watched in horror as Illya's eyes swelled up and his lips started to turn blue. With an effort, Napoleon moved his hand up to his neck, cradling Illya's hand in his as his life spilled through the slash wound. He heard the footsteps of their attacker recede into the distance, leaving them alone with their fate.

Darkness. Silence. Formless.

+-+-+-+ 

Napoleon yawned and stomped his feet on the spot as he poured another coffee. As he drank, he stared at a gun-metal wall and tried to put his fuzzy thoughts into place.

“Someone's had a late night,” Wanda said as she stood in a doorway leafing through a folder.

“That bad, is it?” Napoleon gave her a half-smile.

“You've looked better, but then again you've looked worse.” She shrugged as she gave her assessment.

“Just need a little bit extra to get the engine running this morning. I'll be fine,” Napoleon replied, hoping it would be.  


Back in his office, read through some background information, trying to find a way into the case. Strategies played around in his head and he decided on a course of action. As his communicator started chiming, he popped the cap off and caught it mid-air.

Illya's voice filtered down the line. “Napoleon, I have a lead. Corbin has some sort of workshop hidden in the Felden industrial estate.”

“Yes, I was just reading up on that place. We seem to be heading to the same conclusion,” Napoleon answered.

“I'll call if I need help. Happy reading,” Illya replied, sounding a little distracted.

Napoleon had been tapping his pen on his file for a few minutes by the time he realised that a strange sensation of dread was overcoming him. He called for backup and sped to the estate.

Gunshots, yelling, a tangle of fighting agents.

Napoleon pushed a door open with his foot and quickly took in the situation. Illya was slumped, bound to a chair while a woman in a white coat stood by him. Her hands were covering her mouth and she stared at the THRUSH agent who had her arm in a tight grip, menacing her. He turned at the sound of the door opening and opened fire on Napoleon. He dodged to the side, anticipating and shot back. The man fell to the floor with a loud thud. Napoleon raced over as the woman took a step back.

She cried out, holding out a small vial, “I was only following orders. I'm just a doctor. It's not my fault!”

“What did you give him?” Napoleon asked tersely.

“Truth serum. But it must be a bad batch, or maybe he's allergic.”

Napoleon untied Illya and placed him on the floor. “You say you're a doctor, help him!”

“He can't breathe. There's an oxygen tank back there.” The doctor took a step back and pointed. “I'll get it, make him comfortable, put him on his side and make sure he hasn't swallowed his tongue. I'm sorry, I never wanted this.”

“Alright. Shut up,” Napoleon took a chance to trust her and turned his attention to Illya.

As Napoleon gently turned Illya, he opened his eyes and rasped something garbled.

“Don't speak. I'll call for help in a moment,” Napoleon soothed, gently prising his lips apart.

Illya's eyes tracked to something over Napoleon's shoulder.

“Here,” said the doctor as she stopped behind Napoleon.

Illya's eyes widened and he started to gasp.

A flash of metal. Red splattering. Napoleon's choking gasp.  


The doctor dropped the scalpel and staggered back, leaving Napoleon to slump on top of Illya.

Napoleon stared in shock as Illya fought to breathe, the added burden of Napoleon's weight upon his chest adding to his torment. A warmth started to spread along his throat as the pain from the scalpel burned him. He felt Illya's fingers press against the slash and slowly placed his hand over them.

Vision blurred and failed. Soft gasps stilled to nothing. A dark void.

+-+-+-+ 

Napoleon yawned and shook a leg, as he poured another coffee. As he sipped, he stared at the gun-metal ceiling and tried to sort out his hazy mind.

“Jet lag?” Wanda asked as she stood in a doorway leafing through a folder.

“I shouldn't have, it was only a four hour flight,” Napoleon gave her a weary smile.

“You've looked better, but then again you've looked worse.” She shrugged as she gave her assessment.

“Just need a little bit extra to get the engine running this morning. I'll be fine,” Napoleon replied, hoping it would be.

“Water and fresh air, timeless advice. Anyway, I was digging through some files and found a missing link. Corbin has a workshop on the Felden industrial estate. The lease is hidden in a chain of shell companies.” Wanda showed him the relevant page with a map. “Illya's headed to the general area, you should go catch up with him.”

“Good plan. This coffee isn't doing anything for me,” Napoleon set down the cup. “A lungful of fresh chemical smog might do the trick.”

As Illya's communicator started to chime, a booted foot stamped on it, silencing it. Another boot stamped on Illya's outstretched hand as he lay writhing on the floor. Outnumbered and taken by surprise, Illya's head span as a shoe slammed against to his skull. He rolled over, trying to get up, but another round of kicks tipped him into unconsciousness.

Stuck in traffic, Napoleon tapped a finger against his steering wheel watching the red light glare ominously at him. In his head, he mapped out the quickest route to join Illya. As soon as the light turned green, he sped forward, already calling for reinforcement.

“He's faking it, Alex,” the woman's voice was full of scorn as she wrenched Illya's head up, forcing one eye open. 

Illya shook his aching head away from her grip as she laughed coldly. He blinked as the man, presumably Alex, leaned into view.

“No more nap time, Kuryakin. Start talking,” Alex growled at him.

“Talk? Yes, yes.” Illya was groggy and his throat dry as he slumped forward. “Let's start at the beginning, then. Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of a landowner from our district,” Illya winced as he was cut off by a slap from the doctor.

“No smart-mouthing us, Kuryakin,” she said, barely keeping the anger from her voice.

“Would you perhaps prefer War and Peace?” Illya asked, innocence personified.

Alex moved close to Illya's face. “I am going to let Doctor Lane slice you up in as many ways as she wishes. Then I'll rub salt into the wounds. Now, tell us what you know.”

“I know my colleagues will complete my mission should I fail. I know you'll be brought to justice,” Illya replied calmly.

Alex snapped is fingers at Doctor Lane. “Truth serum. Dose him up. Now.”

Lane opened her medical bag and found a vial, shook it, then carefully inserted the point of a syringe in it.

Illya set his mind to remembering the music the jazz quartet played last Sunday night. Every finger position on the fretboard, every slap of the snare drum relayed in his mind as he felt the injection. He blotted out Alex's demands and concentrated on the syncopated rhythms, even as another slap threatened to break his self-control. He trusted that Napoleon would burst in through the door at any moment, a smiling quip at his predicament ready as soon as he took care of the THRUSH mooks.

“He's not responding, Lane,” Alex kicked at Illya's chair in frustration. “Dose him up again.”

“Okay, okay. I need to get a fresh batch, though,” Lane answered testily.

“Then do it,” hissed Alex through gritted teeth as she left.

The squeal of a saxophone in Illya's mind wasn't enough to distract him from the sudden sharp pain in his wrist as Lane injected him again.

“Damn, missed the spot,” Lane gave Illya a grin as his eyes met hers. “That got your attention, didn't it, space cadet?” She slid the needle into the vein again as Alex grabbed his face.

“No more stories, you tell me exactly what I want to know,” the THRUSH agent insisted.

Illya's vision blurred slightly as his eyes started to roll back. A slap brought him back and he fought to remember the jazz music playing in his head.

Alex's voice cut into him. “Answer me!”

Illya fought the urge to answer truthfully as he felt his throat tighten. He began to speak, but only a rasp came out, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. Confusion and panic edged out the THRUSH agents before him and he struggled to free his arms, feeling as though he were drowning. 

Alex grabbed Lane's wrist and twisted it. “What did you do to him?”

“I gave him another dose just like you said! He's pretending not to hear us again. I've done my job, you do yours!” Lane tried to pull away, gasping as Napoleon kicked the door in. As she staggered away, Alex shot blindly, forced off-balance. Napoleon's return shot dropped him like a stone.

She stood frozen in place, stammering as she wrung her hands, “I was only-”

“Following orders, I've heard that one before. Stay where you are,” Napoleon snapped, cutting her off as he crossed the room to Illya. “Illya!”

Illya had slumped forward by now, his head resting on his chest as Napoleon untied him, gun levelled at Lane. Illya looked unsteadily up at Napoleon and wheezed.

“What did you give him?” Napoleon demanded.

“It's only truth serum. Well, the second dose was a new batch. A new formula,” Lane was shaking by now. “He must be allergic. He needs oxygen, there's a tank back there.”

“Then get it!” Napoleon ordered as he moved Illya to lie on the floor. “I'm going to get on the communicator and you'll be in hospital in no time, Illya.”

Illya struggled, shaking his head as he looked over Napoleon's shoulder.

“Here,” Lane said quietly.

Before Napoleon could reply, he cried out in agony, clasping one hand to his neck as the scalpel slashed him. He fell heavily onto Illya and stared wild-eyed at his friend. The scalpel clattered to the floor and Lane's footsteps echoed in the distance, leaving them alone.

Napoleon tried to move, feeling himself weaken, trying not to crush Illya. He moaned softly as he felt Illya's hand against his, pressing against his neck. They watched each other until the white silence overtook them.

+-+-+-+ 

Illya scanned the building, settled in his hiding place as he watched the THRUSH mooks move in and out. He got out his communicator and called Napoleon. “I have a lead. I shall call if I need help.”

“You're getting help right now, Illya,” Napoleon answered quickly.

Illya stared at his communicator, then down at the estate perimeter as the building was surrounded by U.N.C.L.E. agents. “Well, if you absolutely insist on making a grand entrance, Napoleon. I'll be right down.”

“Wanda found a clue. I thought I'd get out for some fresh air and join you,” Napoleon said cheerily as Illya joined him.

Illya sniffed. “There's half a dozen different solvent factories in this area, Napoleon.”

“True, but there's a lovely little park we could have lunch in just a few miles back. I think my car might just accidentally pop a gasket or something just as we reach it,” Napoleon said airily.

“In that case, we would simply return in my car and let one of our mechanics fetch it,” Illya answered as he watched the agents spread out, ready for the signal.

Napoleon chuckled as he pulled out his communicator. “Then I might have to rear-end you.” He gave the communicator a twist and simply said, “now!”

Everyone moved in. Footsteps. Shouts. Scuffles.

Napoleon kicked open a door and quickly took in the scene. A woman in a white coat and THRUSH badge stood against a wall, hugging her hands to her chest in fear.

With a nod from Napoleon, Illya moved to her. “There's no other exit from this room. You will come with us.”

Meekly, she obeyed, taking a step forward still clutching at herself.

Napoleon checked the passageway just as Alex stepped into view. The THRUSH agent got his shot in first, felling Napoleon on the spot. 

Illya saw the flash of something in the corner of his eye, just before the scalpel plunged into his neck. He staggered and fell, lurching to his knees as Lane ran out. He slid over to Napoleon and fell heavily against him. Napoleon rolled over, clutching at his chest as red stained his white shirt. Illya fell forward, his face resting against the bullet wound. He could feel the warmth of Napoleon's blood and his erratic heart beat as he looked into Napoleon's eyes. 

“No,” breathed Napoleon as he lifted a hand to Illya's neck, feeling the blood trickle through his fingers.

Illya found his communicator, but fumbled, dropping it below him. He gasped as the scalpel clattered from his wound, murmuring as Napoleon's hand pressed against him.

They lay together watching each other die, eyes full of sadness, friendship, and love. They needed no words, they knew what the other was thinking.

Everything faded to white, to quiet, to formlessness.


End file.
